Death and Taxes
by Mi-chan17
Summary: A view of Scott's thoughts on death and dying. Pathos.


_**Author's Notes: **_ **_Uber thanks to Jen1703 who is Made of Awesome and beta'd this for me. _**

You know, I've never really watched someone die. This realization hits me, cold and hard, right in the chest. I'm sitting in my grandmother's kitchen. I've only been here a few times, but I know this room pretty well. The chairs are simple, sturdy wood. The curtains are yellow, Jean told me. And there is an eclectic collection of various knick-knacks strewn about. Things she'd seen and just couldn't leave there while she was at the flea market.

I've never truly thought about it until now. Living healthily is really only the slowest rate at which somebody can die. It's a pretty sobering thought. But that's the truth of it. The only sure things in life are death and taxes. I think Benjamin Franklin was the one who said that.

But it's hard to concentrate. Because I've never watched someone die. And now that I'm in the midst of it, I can't concentrate or focus to save my life.

It sounds crazy, absurd, that I've never watched someone die. Given that I'm a professional vigilante, you'd think I would have seen it before. But I haven't. I've seen someone die, sure. I've been to more funerals than anyone ever should. But I've never seen death like this. Slow, creeping, and unresponsive to pleas or action.

In the X-Men, you see people die, but they die fast. Instantly. They get hit in the heat of battle and are down – like in war. And whatever the Professor says, I feel like I'm fighting a war. We've had casualties on both sides. But it's just…instantaneous. They are never "dying". They go straight from alive to dead. That intermediate phase just…isn't there.

So I'm twenty-five years old, sitting in my grandmother's kitchen, and watching her die. Slowly.

Not at this exact second, of course. Her cousins are in her room right now, while I sit out here, unable to sit still and unwilling to move. Her cancer has progressed, and she's nearly out of time. The two months doctors gave her will be up tomorrow – and from what I can tell, their estimate wasn't overly ambitious. She's skirting the edge of death and I don't know what to do. It's incredibly frustrating, to not know what to do. There's no action available to me. No strategic trick I can pull to save her.

I hate it.

I should've been a better grandson. I know that I didn't even meet her until I was eighteen or so, when I was finally able to get together the money and the guts to go out to Alaska – to see if I had any family left. I found her.

And she loved me, without any expectations. Everyone has expectations of you. Even, or maybe especially, the people who love you. She didn't. She loved me unconditionally and didn't expect anything in return. And how did I repay that? I visited her six times in the course of six years.

I was always busy. Always teaching, or leading the X-Men. I hadn't even thought about what would happen to her over that time. I've never really seen someone die slowly. So the idea that they did remained just that. An idea. I knew about the cancer. She'd told me about it when I'd first met her. But dying slowly was just so foreign to me…

I'd been a horrible grandson.

The light glaring off the tiles of the kitchen is making my head hurt, and I close my eyes. I'm surprised, and embarrassed, too, when tears slip out from underneath my eyelids. I can only cry with my eyes closed. I don't want to cry. But I can't bring myself to open my eyes either. The salty water is streaming down my face, and I'm rubbing it away with my hands, as fast as I can. It's making my cheeks feel raw.

I feel utterly exposed, and I can't make it stop. God damn it, _why won't it stop?!_

Cool, slim arms slip around me. Jean. She doesn't say anything, just holds onto me for awhile as I cry. I can't believe I'm letting her see this, but she doesn't leave. Doesn't make any sounds of disgust. In fact, the only thing she says at all is, "It's okay, Scott."

She lets me go after a bit and takes the seat next to me, reaching over to hold my hand. She squeezes it a little. For a millisecond, I feel better. Then it all comes back.

"I should have been a better grandson," I tell her, forcing my eyes open to look her in the eye.

"Scott," she tells me, voice sad, rubbing my hand with a thumb, "you were a great grandson. You love her. She knows that."

"I should have visited more. I should have…done something. Why can't I do anything?" My voice is frustrated and angry. Jean doesn't appear to know what to say. After a minute of silence she stands up, using my hands to pull me up too. And then she hugs me.

I hadn't even thought about it, but this is what I need. Her arms are tight around me, almost hugging the tears from me. And I need this.

"It'll be okay," she whispers, stroking my back a little. "You'll be okay."

She's wrong. It won't be "okay". But in inviting me to watch her die, my grandmother has taught me one of the greatest lessons at all. Don't take time for granted. I made that mistake with her. I regret it, to be point of being sick. I'll never make that mistake again.

Never.

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